


To Be Yuri

by silverwolf_fox



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Crossdressing, Fluff, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, crossdressing!yuri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-07 05:35:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17954552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverwolf_fox/pseuds/silverwolf_fox
Summary: Adolescence is awkward, and growth spurts are the WORST, especially if everything you do and are depends on being graceful. Beautiful... Yuri finds an unconventional way to reconnect to that aesthetic, and looks damned good doing it! A visiting Otabek... is surprised. And is perfectly Otabek





	To Be Yuri

**Author's Note:**

> For clarification, in this fic Yuri crossdresses but he is not trans (so male pronouns still apply).

The mirror reflected a slender, fair skinned seventeen year old Russian. Pale blonde hair was braided down the right shoulder, and a white sundress brushed against freshly shaved legs. White wedge sandals and a sun hat completed the image of a beautiful, confident young woman. He pushed a stray strand of hair behind his ear and pulled on an old, black leather jacket.

Taking one last look to appreciate his reflection, since he didn’t get to dress up like this very often, the champion figure skater set out into the streets of St. Petersburg. Floating through the crowd with the grace granted only to a ballerina, he headed to a farmer’s market held in the square nearby. Even though it was the off-season, he had to monitor his diet, and the fruits and vegetables from the market tasted far better than the grocery store.

He was looking through a basket of potatoes when a voice caused him to freeze.

“Yura?” Taking a calming breath, Yuri forced himself to pick up a potato and examine it while he pretended that he hadn’t heard Otabek’s confused tone. The hope that his best friend would assume a mistaken identity was crushed when he said, in a far less amused tone, “You’re wearing my jacket, Yura.”

With a small wince, Yuri dropped the potato and turned, nervously tugging at the leather jacket he’d been given during his last trip to Almaty and tilting his sun hat in an attempt to shield his face. Otabek closed the distance between them and lifted the hat away. Yuri’s face was red from embarrassment as dark eyes scanned his appearance. A large, darker toned hand lifted his chin, forcing him to face Otabek.

“I would know those eyes anywhere.”

“I thought you weren’t coming ‘til tomorrow,” Yuri muttered.

“Plans changed. Want me to leave?”

“No! Of course not!” the younger skater quickly said, flushing a brighter red when he saw the smug expression of the usually stoic Kazakh and realized that Otabek had obviously been teasing. Yuri snatched his hat back from Otabek and angrily shoved it over his golden locks. “I need to finish shopping.”

Nodding in understanding, Otabek schooled his features and silently held his arm out. Yuri stared at the offered appendage for a moment before realization sparked his temper.

“I’m not a stupid girl!” he snapped, stomping away to another stall. “Bastard Beka.” The Hero of Kazakhstan raised a brow and smirked, holding in a laugh as he watched the white sundress whirl around the furious Russian’s legs.

Otabek silently followed Yuri throughout the marketplace, watching the latter’s tense shoulders slowly relax as his quick temper died down. It wasn’t long before the blonde could no longer keep silent and began asking his opinion on certain foods, and soon after that the Kazakh’s hand would be grabbed and pulled around when something delicious or interesting came into view.

As if he had never been angry to begin with, Yuri would grin with excitement at his companion, forgetting that he had never let go of the older skater’s hand. They shopped for another hour before heading back to Yuri’s apartment to drop off the groceries and have lunch. Otabek took the basket of fresh food to carry, kept his fingers laced with the blonde’s in a warm grip, and silently led the way home.

After fumbling with his keys, Yuri went to his room, feeling the loss when their hands separated. He balanced on each foot to remove his delicate sandals and placed them and the wide-brim hat inside his closet. The leather jacket was folded and placed on the bed where a large, fluffy cat immediately curled on top of it to resume her nap. Finally, the sundress slid up over his shoulders in a single, smooth movement before dropping to become another of the many piles of dirty clothes on the floor.

His hands dug into the designated “clean clothes” pile that was in the corner nearest the closet, discarding shirts and pants to the side until he found what he wanted. When Yuri came out of his bedroom, he had pulled on a pair of baggy black sweatpants and a plain black tank top that hung loosely on his thin frame. Otabek was leaning against the kitchen counter, having laid out a dishcloth covered in freshly washed vegetables and fruits.

The Kazakh took in the Russian’s appearance and quirked an amused brow.

“How many of my clothes do you have?” he asked. The blond glanced down and plucked at the oversized shirt, one of many acquisitions from his best friend.

“You left it, so it’s mine.” Though Yuri would never admit it, he did have a tendency to steal Otabek’s clothes when the opportunity arrived. They always smelled of dark spice and smoke. To distract from the pale rose blooming in his cheeks, nimble fingers began undoing the blonde braid, rolling the black hair band over his hand to cinch around his wrist.

Only a short moment skipped by before his deep voice replied, “It suits you.”

Too embarrassed to think of a clever comeback, Yuri huffed and started pulling out sandwich ingredients for a simple lunch, feeling the dark gaze that followed him. They were simple ham sandwiches, and Yuri only made half of one for himself. The two of them sat at the table, eating in silence, and when Otabek was putting the dishes into the dishwasher, Yuri moved to the living area to sit on the farthest side of the couch.

He folded one leg under him and pulled the other to his chest. The couch dipped when Otabek sat down. The Kazakh was on the other side, giving Yuri plenty of space to breathe. After a couple of minutes, the tense silence was too much, and Yuri finally spoke.

“Aren’t you going to ask?”

“Do you want me to?” Otabek’s tone revealed nothing about his thoughts.

“I don’t want you to have the wrong impression.” His voice was unusually quiet, and he hugged his knee and wrung his hands together.

“What does it matter?” Blue-green eyes widened in surprise, and Yuri lifted his head to stare into the warm brown gaze of Otabek. “Man or woman, you are Yuri Plisetsky. My Yura.”

The pet name burned scarlet in his cheeks and down his neck. Unable to help himself, Yuri pressed a hand to his forehead and leaned back into the couch. He snickered, but there was no real amusement in the hollow sound.

“It’s not like that,” he explained. “I’m not a girl, and I don’t want to be. It’s just that...wearing those clothes makes me feel the way I used to.”

“I don’t understand.” The couch shifted when Otabek inched closer.

“I used to be the Russian Fairy.”

“You hated that title,” Otabek reminded him. From beneath a curtain of hair, Yuri glared at him.

“I won gold at the Grand Prix Final with that title,” he snapped. Breathing out a heavy sigh, Yuri turned his body to face Otabek so he could lean sideways against the back of the couch. He blinked once, twice, then quietly confessed, “Lillia is disappointed.”

Otabek furrowed his brow and frowned. “She said this?”

With a brief shake of his head, Yuri felt his eyes sting. “I can see it in her eyes during practice.” He dug his fingers into the dark fabric of his shirt. A tightness in his throat made it hurt to breathe, and Yuri quickly rubbed the heel of his hand harshly against his eyes when they started to water. Then he spat, “It feels like I can’t do anything anymore!”

Large hands stretched out his legs and pulled him closer so that he was curled against the Kazakh’s warm chest. 

“My Yura,” Otabek cooed comfortingly, threading his fingers through the long blond locks.

“I’m not as flexible as I used to be, and this damn body has changed so much that I lost my balance and fell during a double toe loop. A fucking double toe loop, Beka!” he reiterated.

“This is why you did not eat much for lunch?” Otabek supposed. Shamed burned Yuri’s pale cheeks red, not realizing that Otabek had noticed.

“If I eat too much, then my figure will change even more,” he mumbled, pressing his face into his older friend’s shoulder as if that would protect him from the waves of disappointment he could feel.

“Yuri.” The serious tone of his voice made Yuri stiffen. “You must eat.”

“I know,” he groaned. Otabek shifted Yuri so that he could meet his eyes. The younger’s blue-green eyes were wide and misty. Fragile, a word rarely used to describe the Ice Tiger.

“You are an incredible skater. Growing older will not change that.”

“But-”

“It will not!” Yuri jerked when Otabek raised his voice, though even shouting, the Kazakh was still as quiet as the Japanese pig. “You are older. Your body is older. All skaters go through this. Victor did. The Japanese Yuuri did. I did. Do you believe my skating ruined because of it?”

“Of course not!” Yuri’s fingers clutched Otabek’s shirt, fearing that he would ever believe he found his skating to be anything short of amazing.

“If your body changing is ruining your skating, then practice until it isn’t,” Otabek growled. “I’ve never known you to be such a quitter.”

Yuri’s temper snapped, and he rose up onto his knees, straddling one of Otabek’s thighs and fisting his shirt angrily.

“I am no quitter! I’ll show you! I’ll skate until I’ve mastered this body of mine, and then I’ll take gold again at the Grand Prix Finals!” The frustration that had marred Otabek’s face smoothed into a kind, if minutely smug, expression. Cupping the young Russian’s cheek with his hand, lightly stroking a pale cheekbone with his thumb, he leaned forward and pressed their foreheads together.

“There is your fire.” He sounded relieved, and Yuri was speechless when he realized how easily he’d been played. Feeling the tension leave his body, the blond curled against Otabek’s chest and nuzzled the dark skin beneath his friend’s jaw. A large hand rested against his calf before slipping underneath the leg of his pants to stroke the smooth pale skin with his thumb.

Jumping at the sudden warmth from his hand, Yuri couldn’t quite force himself to relax. A thoughtful hum and an offhand comment on his leg’s softness had embarrassment burning his skin. Yuri half-heartedly fought against the thick arm wrapped around him, rolling his eyes at the Kazakh’s deep chuckle.

It was a difficult task to make the Russian blush, but when he did, the color spread from his cheeks all the way down to his chest. Otabek loved watching that pale skin turn red and loved being the cause even more. In a nonchalant tone that sounded too defensive to be genuine, Yuri remarked that he enjoyed the feel of shaved legs and that it looked better when he wore skirts and dresses. His steely glare dared Otabek to mock him, but he only replied that he liked it.

Otabek lifted Yuri’s leg, the long limb effortlessly following his machinations despite the Russian’s insecurities, and pressed a solid kiss to the muscular calf through the fabric of his pants. His eyes stared deeply at the blue-green orbs that refused to look away. Yuri could feel himself leaning closer, knowing that Otabek was doing the same.

Millimeters separated their lips when the Kazakh unwisely teased, “Maybe I will be the flexible one now.” An impossibility, and they both knew it, but he did so enjoy inciting Yuri’s furious reactions, even when they were targeted at him.

He could almost hear Yuri’s temper breaking.

“Oh yeah?!” The blonde threw himself off the couch and away from Otabek so that he could stomp down the hall. Angry mutterings such as “Stupid Beka” and “Mood killing asshole” could be heard as well as things being tossed around until Yuri returned, a leopard printed duffle bag hanging from his shoulder. He paused only long enough to glare at Otabek and yell, “I’ll show you! Instead of a fairy, I will be the Ice Tiger of Russia!” before storming off.

Otabek fought a laugh until he heard the front door shut and realized he was actually being left behind. With lips still quirked up in silent amusement, he got up and rifled through his luggage, grabbing the smaller bag with his skating gear. He pulled on his shoes and hurried out the door after his Yura.

**Author's Note:**

> I can’t help it. I absolutely love the aesthetic of cross dressing Yuri. He’d look stunning in a white sundress and no one can convince me otherwise!


End file.
